“Lies,” I seethe.
He’s got no sidearm, and his backup gun is in the desk drawer behind him.
There’s a blade sheathed attached to my belt, and my gun is holstered at my hip. There’s no silencer attached. The gun will be too loud, bring about too much-unwarranted attention.
I unsheathe the glistening blade, staring into his cold, ruthless eyes.
“I swear, he’s your son.”
My gaze tightens. “Is that supposed to be you begging for your life?”
“I know who your parents are!” Rather than scream for backup or his men, Roberto says the one thing that has me questioning my very existence.
He’s manipulating me, trying to convince me he isn’t the bad guy. He reaches for my gun, grabbing it to use against me.
Roberto must be stopped.
* * *
There’s blood on my hands. It’s not anything new, except the crimson stains who I am.
There’s no relief, no flood of happiness from what I’ve done. Roberto’s men seek a leader, and Mario Moretti is the second in command.
Mario is no better of a man than Roberto.
He is as much at fault for stealing children from their families. While he took orders from Roberto, he helped orchestrate the operation.
How much bloodshed until I can right what’s been done?
How many men must die or fall in line?
I remove my blazer, wipe the remnants of my blood-soaked hands, and open the office door. Roberto’s body needs to be disposed of, but not before his men know what I’ve done.
Who I am.
And who I will become.
“Come with me,” I say, ushering the boy down the hall and into a closet. I yank open the door. “Stay here. Don’t move.” I give orders like he’s a soldier.
His eyes are wide, fearful. I nudge him back into the hall closet and shut the door. The boy doesn’t need to see death and blood, savagery. He’s young, innocent, and maybe I can protect him from that life of darkness.
The boy is also a child of the bratva. Stealing him is wrong, but handing him back to men who are far more cutthroat than I am, he’s bound to become my enemy one day.
There’s little choice in what I must do.
I’m not a man to run, hide, or cower.
“Don Moretti is dead!” I proclaim as I stand in the hallway outside of his office. I open the door, letting anyone who wishes to see the truth with their eyes. “There will be no further bloodshed of babies, stealing newborns for profit, or kidnapping innocent children.”
“Who put you in charge?” Mario asks, stepping down the hallway.
“I did,” I say, staring him down. There’s a splatter of blood on my crisp white shirt. I don’t dare look in the mirror and see if my face or neck has any of the don’s remains on me. “I killed Roberto, and I will kill any man who gets in my way.”
I’ve initiated a challenge, a call for the next don.
* * *
It’s only a matter of time until the Barinovs come barreling through the front door. The hours tick by, with Roberto dead and the other men invoking a challenge. We aren’t the least bit prepared for war.